


breathe in

by sleepdrunk



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Blanket Permission, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 04:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21265259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepdrunk/pseuds/sleepdrunk





	breathe in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeautyGraceOuterSpace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautyGraceOuterSpace/gifts).

_Bones_

Bones rubbed his eyes. It was going to be one of those weeks, he could tell already.

He stood from his desk. The chronometer read 04:00. _This fucking paperwork can wait,_ he thought as he stood, gathering his sweater from the back of the chair. Chapel was long gone, departing somewhere around 21:00 hours with a pitying look and a pat on his back. Some nights, the short walk from Sick Bay to his quarters felt like miles-- but he found himself longing for the swampy woods of home. The bright moon overhead, tall pines reaching to the sky; the crunch of their long red needles under foot and the hoot of a screech owl somewhere off in the woods.

These days, all he seemed to do was keep running. Every day; just to escape the mounting pressure inside his own head. The thoughts he could not escape. The unrelenting feelings of inadequacy, the crushing loneliness and the knowledge of its self-imposition.

He could almost hear the chitter of crickets in the pitch black of Georgia nights and he missed the humid air. The hum of the ship’s engines and the dimmed lights of Delta shift never quite did it for him, not when he was in _this type’a mood, _that was for sure.

Sighing, he let himself into his quarters.

Too late for a drink, and nobody to talk to.

_The autobiography of one Leonard H. McCoy. _

* * *

_Spock _

The study of human idiosyncrasies was, if Spock were held at phaser-point and forced to resort to metaphor, an area of study close to his heart. He knew why-- the fact of his own biology and the mystery of it was the most obvious explanation. Proximity to his human mother; the ability to study first-hand her experience on an alien world, and her immersion in a society that was for all intents and purposes diametrically opposed to the one she was raised in. His own chosen career: it was imperative for one’s survival, at least politically speaking, to develop an understanding of the majority psyche in a given professional workplace. His friends.

His chosen family, if he were feeling particularly sentimental.

Of particular interest was the singular case of one Doctor Leonard H. McCoy. A decorated senior medical officer; experienced and exceedingly competent in combat situations, not to mention his stellar record in his given field. By no means a commonplace individual. He was in possession of no particularly odious personality traits, by anyone’s standards, and had managed to start a family. Even if he had _‘failed’_ in this endeavour-- McCoy’s words; the Spock clan had no claim to pre-eminence as a healthy, functioning family-- he had succeeded, without question, in the most basic of survival drives. He had produced a healthy child.

This was what stuck out in Spock’s mind, regarding his friend and colleague: No matter how many successes Dr. McCoy seemed to accumulate, he was perpetually preoccupied with his failures.

He was, by no means, a bore. The opposite was far closer to the truth-- the good doctor often served as a balm to the raw, unrefined aspects of Spock’s nature; an invaluable quality in a command team. McCoy exuded calm in the most tense of situation. He could be ruthless in combat, or immeasurably compassionate and kind when all others in the room wanted nothing but blood.

No, Leonard McCoy was a vital member of not only the crew, but of Spock’s own personal universe. The situation had crept up on the Vulcan slowly, but surely; and there could be no denying it now.

Spock considered this quandary, as he crept around in shadows, watching his friend retreat to his quarters in the small hours of the morning.

To borrow a phrase from his mother, he wondered: _What on earth was eating Doctor McCoy?_

* * *

“Captain,” Spock said, bowing slightly at the waist so as to address the seated captain. “A word?”

“Of course, Mister Spock. Briefing room?”

“Sir, you will permit a brief dalliance into private matters while on duty,” Spock began, once the doors swished shut behind them. “Given that there are no pressing matters of survival at present. In fact, though this matter may not be strictly prescient to operations, it certainly pertains to morale--”

Jim scrubbed his face and chuckled at Spock. “Christ, Spock. Whatever it is-- just hit me.”

“Sir? I cannot comprehend how striking one’s superior off--”

“Not enough coffee in the known galaxy. Spock, just-- just tell me what’s going on.” Despite the irritation present in his words, he graced Spock with a bright smile; though evidence of exhaustion showed around his eyes. “It’s-- it’s all good, Spock. _At ease, _or _as at ease as possible, _Mister.”

“Understood.” He relaxed a fraction. “My concern is in regards to one Doctor Leonard Horatio McCoy.” Spock returned Jim’s smile, though his version may have been muted.

“Oh! Well, why didn’t you say so.”

“Have you also observed his flagging spirits of late, Captain?”

“Ha-- yeah. He’s definitely in one of his moods.” Jim rested a hip against the conference table.

“Moods, sir?”

“Yeah-- he just, he gets down.” Jim paused, seemingly considering what might be appropriate to divulge. “And Christ,” Jim massaged the bridge of his nose. “His birthday’s comin’ up-- always, _always_ gets to him, and when we dock he’s gotta go straight down to Georgia and spend time with his ex wife and a mess of in laws. That, and he misses his daughter like crazy.”

“A most distressing predicament.”

“You could say that, yeah. Wanna do something for him?”

“Indeed.”

* * *

_Nothing like the silence of space to amplify your own thoughts_, thought Leonard. _Listenin’ to myself lose my mind in real time._

Len got up. Ordered a tea from the replicator. As usual, it tasted like what a robot thought hot leaves should taste like-- which, as it turned out, was _wet cardboard._

Every day was the same. Wake up, wish he could stay in bed. Shower and drag uniform blues over his head; force self to put pants on. Have inane conversations with coworkers and friends; be certain that they find him irritating and are angry at him for any given decision or misspoken phrase. Everything felt like a bad idea, all the time. Jim might be his best friend, but he was first and foremost his captain; and to add on to that-- Leonard had the added responsibility of a CMO; and had to be constantly at the ready to contradict or even override Jim, and who knows what kinds of resentments could cook themselves up under the skin. Probably sittin’ there, about ready to explode like an infected boil at any second. And then there was Spock-- with whom Leonard stumbled crotch-first into the hurdles of interpersonal relations with a Vulcan at every turn. He held genuine warm feelings toward the First Officer, but who the hell knew what went on between those pointy ears--

_There I go again,_ he thought. _No wonder they probably all-- wish they could replace me. Or just leave me on some godforsaken rock orbiting a frozen sun. _

_Ugh. _

A glance at the time told him he needed to get up off his sorry ass and go to Medical. Stare blankly at the wall for a few hours. Chapel could run it by herself at this point-- _Hell, maybe I should pitch _that _to Jim. I’ll go live in some decrepit cabin for the next few decades. Take up whittlin’--_

Whittling. Now that was an idea; that could help him pass the time.

That’s what this job was, really. Either it was balls-to-the-wall, ‘one rapidly aging country doctor is not enough for a crew of four hundred and twenty people’, flat-out swamp-ass _busy; _or this.

Ennui and overthinking.

He’d usually just stay in the lab-- which was what he’d been doing for the last few weeks; just to stop himself from thinking. Sure, he was preparing for the aforementioned _season of oh shit_. But if he was honest, it was to drown out his own goddamn mind.

He slipped on his shoes and grabbed the few necessities that weren’t already in his office, and gave his bed one last backward glance.

_Another day._

* * *

“Hey, Bones. I haven’t seen you much over the last couple days-- you doing okay?”

There was that too-careful tone again. Leonard was getting all too used to that. Jim, Christine-- hell, now even Spock was talking to him like this.

“What, do I look like an inpatient or something? Christ--”

“Crap, I’m sorry. It’s just-- are you alright? It’s fine if you’re not. I just wish you’d let us in on it.”

“Christ, Jim. I’m not exactly--”

_“Bones._ I’m not here as-- as your Captain. You’re my best friend. I take that seriously. I just wish you’d talk to me-- I just need you to know I’m here for you.”

Len was silent. He picked at a cuticle, and sighed.

“Just-- I just hope it’s not something I’m doing; driving you to, I don’t know. Leave us, or something.”

“That something you’d want?”

Jim kinda squeaked and swivelled the barstool so that Len got a full view of his puppy-dog look.

_“Fuck, _no. Len--”

“I’m sorry. I just got Joyce on the horn, ‘couple minutes before you came in here. I cancelled my trip out there--” he chewed a nail and winced when it tore off too deep. “‘Course, I wouldn’ta cancelled if Jo was coming, but she’s at school’n all.”

“Oh, Bones--”

“It’s alright. I’m just too tired."

* * *

“What’s this?”

An observatory window, normally shuttered, was opened wide, and there was a mess of old blankets and quilts strewn on the floor in front of it. From that vantage point, someone lying on the comfy pile could stare up into the infinity of stars; slowed for the moment. The ship was running on impulse power, so the stars went by no faster than lights on a highway; the closest ones zipping by, and the ones further out looked as though they were still. He saw the milky edges of far away galaxies; a reminder that the vast blackness before him every day contained _life_ and not just loneliness.

“You had, at a point earlier in our acquaintance, expounded a treatise on the proper relaxation practices of man, Doctor McCoy. A significant portion of that lecture had pertained to evening activities. _‘Stargazing’_ being one of these, and one which you yourself expressed a great fondness.”

Leonard couldn’t help but smile fondly at Spock, who stood there-- in front of what could only be called _the makings of a sleepover._

“You-- you guys. You didn’t have to--”

“‘Course we did, Bones.” Jim slung a heavy arm over Len’s shoulders and squeezed, then rested a sharp chin on one of them. He held his eyes and gave a wicked grin. “How else’re we gonna get to braid each others’ hair, huh?”

“Oh, alright. You really can’t beat that view, can ya Jim.”

“Nope,” he continued a little more softly. “And besides. You can call it a night any time you need. But I thought it’d be nice to just chill. Let you know how much we love ya.” He gave another squeeze, patted Len’s shoulder, and hopped down the step.

“Please make yourself comfortable, Doctor.”

“Leonard. At least.”

“Leonard,” Spock inclined his head. “I have prepared Mint Juleps. Would you care to imbibe?”

“Ha-- sure, Spock. I’d like that, I really would.”

Spock turned, presumably to gather the refreshments.

“And Bones-- I got you a little _somethin’_. I really should’ve made you a card; something with glitter on it,” Jim quipped. He smiled brightly, eyes sparkling in the low light.”

Len eyed him suspiciously, the patented Jim Kirk grin spreading already.

“What?”

“Well, Chrissy asked me about gettin’ an intern-- yes, without your highness-- and I said I could probably swing that.” Jim looked at the floor and spun one toe on the floor. “And ah-- I found a really gifted medical student.”

“Jim--”

“It’s Jo, Len. Jo’s gonna join us on the _Enterprise.” _


End file.
